Hello everyone!

This is my first real Fanfic on this site. It was largely inspired by musing over what might have happened to any redcoat sailors who survived the destruction of the Endeavour by abandoning ship before it was too late. I came to the conclusion that, as the rest of the Company's armada was too far away to reach by swimming, the most likely way that anyone alive in the water could be saved would be by reaching the pirate fleet. While I find it hard to believe that Jack, Will or Elizabeth would execute defenseless prisoners, who knows if the same can be said of any of their fellow pirate crews? Inspiration for this fic also comes from the "Hoist the Colors," opening scene of At World's End.

I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean, which belongs to Disney; nor do I own the song 'Rule Britannia', which belongs to James Thomson and Thomas Arne.

***

A messy affair, he thought to himself, quite a messy affair. Yet another testament to the barbarity and inhumanity of these people. It would, the redcoat mused, have been quite a different spectacle if it had been the East India Trading Company carrying out the executions. The thought was a lifeline, and he clung to it, seeking in the crystal-sharp memories an escape from the senseless mess before him. He recalled the orderly lines of the doomed, the swift efficiency of the killings, the recitation of the crimes of the condemned, the sharp taps of drumbeats piercing the crisp air, the professional silence of the victorious officers as their enemies were punished. But this, this sick parody of justice, this sadistic swap between executioner and victim, this was another matter entirely. This was not the order of things.

He knew he was going to die. He'd known it ever since the Dutchman's jagged prow had turned towards them, the leviathan of a ship changing course like some monstrous beast bearing down inevitably upon its prey. His flying leap into the water as the first cannon struck had been nothing more than the desperate act of a doomed man attempting to delay the fate he knew was coming. He'd already known what would become of him as he was dragged on board the pirate vessel by traitorous helping hands, hands that itched only to destroy the one they'd saved.

He stood, a pale, drenched ghost, among a dozen or so of his fellows who had also been dragged from the sea. He stood, and he knew, and yet he could not comprehend.

The HMS Endeavour, pride of the East India Trading Company, reduced to driftwood by the cannons of thieves!

Lord Cutler Beckett, so long a heralded symbol of power and justice, sleeping among the waves, along with his dreams of glory and triumph for England!

Admiral James Norrington missing in action, and Lieutenants Groves and Greitzer and who knew how many other decent men littering the ocean's surface!

And he - the anonymous redcoat, one faceless component of a hundreds-strong army – he and a handful of equally insignificant men, the last hope of the formerly great Company, were clustered on the deck of some rival ship, doomed to die at the whim of the enemy.

He knew all these things, and yet could not comprehend them.

Heavy chains clinked as he raised bound hands and ran one finger down his cheek. Chilled and soaking wet, it was, like the rest of him, stuck in that uncomfortable place between adolescence and adulthood, the childish softness giving way to sparse stubble. He searched his mind for an age, yet in his state of numbness none came. Eighteen? Nineteen? Younger? And how young had he been when he had first seen the Dauntless' rippling flags and majestic sails come soaring into harbor, and had with glistening eyes announced to his mother that he would give anything, anything, to serve on a ship like that?

Seven, perhaps. Yes, seven – the same age Lewis was now. A faint smile stretched the redcoat's face. Poor, sweet little Lewis, so innocently eager to join his big brother on his adventures, would not understand when the "Lost at Sea" notice would be passed gravely to his mother. He would think it was all some sort of game, firm in his belief that nothing badcould have happened to his hero, his best friend. And perhaps he would never understand – perhaps his mother would swallow her tears and spare her youngest child from the harsh truth. Perhaps Lewis would go to bed that night smiling, reassured that his brother was just on a longer journey than expected, delayed by a sea serpent or some other imaginary excuse…

Lewis. His mother. These memories were nothing like the recollections of pirate hangings to which he had escaped. These held depth and quality, and for that he shunned them, determined not to think of his mother, and how she had cried and embraced him the day he first got his uniform and pledged his loyalty to the Company…

Even harder than that was trying not to think of Abigail.

Abigail – her fair white skin, the ringing bells of her laughter, and the multitudes of other things he loved about her, not least of all the unwavering honesty she inspired in him, in his promise to return to her once the Company had triumphed.

Love. Loyalty. The Company. A mirthless laugh tore his throat. What did those things amount to now? No amount of integrity would appeal to the black hearts of these horrid men; no sense of pity cause their swords to falter. All the virtues that his years of disciplined military service had cultivated in him were dead here, foreign coins that could not be used for barter.

Rage twisted his expression; teeth clamped down on his lip in an effort to keep his eyes from reddening with bitter tears. What kind of cruel twist of fate was this, what nightmarish ending to a fairytale? For this was not what happened in children's stories, was it? Always the dragon was slain, and the prince rescued the princess, carrying her off to his castle where a grand celebration awaited. Never was the daring young hero murdered by thieves and cutthroats. Never did the princess remain in her tower, gazing over the ruined kingdom in despair.

Yet this was life, he reminded himself, and life was cruel. He had known that since the instant the Dutchman turned on its masters. There was not even a way of leaving behind a message, one small fragment of hope for those he, as a Navy man, had pledged to protect. All these pirates saw in the faces of the doomed men was weakness, and it was this same despair that would spread to the sailors whose ships were now hogs to be slaughtered upon cruel cannons, or the families who longed to sleep without fear that their portside homes would be nothing but piles of ashes the following morning…

It was then that a solution came to him: the memory of a small boy, who with the noose around his neck and a trapdoor at his feet was determined not to be forgotten, to with his dying words give his comrades one last call to action. The redcoat and his fellows had laughed at the absurdity of this idea, that the song of a prisoner could possibly conjure up an enemy to best the might of the Company … but it had, hadn't it, he thought bitterly, and now we're paying the price.

The executions had begun now; a splash punctured his thoughts as the first of his allies was shoved overboard, dragged to the depths by the cannonballs tied to his bound wrists. The line progressed, pirates jeering as the next victim stepped up to the plank.

Could he, a redcoat of the Royal Navy, possibly feel the same way that lowly pirate boy had?

Could he possibly feel the same inexorable, inescapable fear?

And could he possibly be as brave as that one small boy, the despised enemy, had been in the face of defeat?

We're the only ones left, now, the redcoat thought; it's our turn to sing.

"When Britain first, at heaven's command,

Arose from out the azure main…"

The words were little more than a whisper, nearly drowned by the rowdy laughter and the splashes, yet his trembling voice carried them high.

"This was the charter of the land

And guardian angels sang this strain."

Splash. Another comrade fell to the insatiable hunger of the sea. The plank wobbled and creaked, freed of its burden. The laughter swelled, as did the song.

"Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves!

Britons never, ever, ever shall be slaves."

The music was a great mantle, each of its intertwined threads a voice crying its proud defiance, its refusal to be silenced.

"Still more majestic shall thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke."

Splash. Another voice fell silent; a thread snapped; the song thinned.

"More dreadful, dreadful from each foreign stroke."

Splash. Splash. The line was shortening, the plank moving closer and closer towards him.

"As the loud blast, the blast that tears the skies…"

Another splash. His turn was next.

"…serves but to root the native oak."

Rusty iron chains were forced around his wrists, their steely weights dragging his hands to knee-level. Bent back searing in protest, he stumbled onto the plank, more aware of each pounding heartbeat than the last.

"Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves…"

Goodbye, Abigail.

"Britons never, ever shall be slaves!"

Splash!